The Moya View

Their Feather Dance

When she danced he knew his 
hope was a feathered thing.

In the moonlight, she shone,
a blue smooth watery ripple

of ostrich wings that made her
seem his Cleopatra in bas-relief.

She raised her hand to the sky
and up high, six feathers flew up.

And just as quickly returned to
earth a billow of floating down.

His twi-night met her sunset
and her feathers fell withered

to the faded shag green carpet,
the scent of dollar store perfume

yielding to the scent of pink night-
gown with a feather boa collar.

There she stood with withered wings—
and still tender to him behold,

their ivory blue membranes unfolding to
un-obliterated skies and waning moons.

But then, they always knew, the
the true thing about feathers is

they know what’s been missed, and
don’t regret it or even mourn.





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